Friend Like You
by AleTheHOUSEwife
Summary: COMPLETE! House and Wilson's latest bet collides with Fate when a devastated man threatens not only their lives, but the very roots of House's love for his best friend.
1. Prologue

**Friend Like You**

"_I believe that love that is true and real creates a rest bit from death. _

_All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well, which is the same thing. And when the man who is brave and true looks death squarely in the face – like some rhino hunters I know or Belmonte, who is truly brave – it is because they love with sufficient passion to push death out of their minds." _

E. Hemingway (from Midnight In Paris)

––

Monday, 8pm

–

It was dark outside, and still raining. It had been a gloomy, cloudy morning, followed by a foggy afternoon which had made room for a chilly night: heavy rain had been pouring during the whole cycle, which somehow held a peculiar pensive, tranquil feeling. It had been a calmly inexorable, endless rainfall, and it was as if it were not supposed to stop, or the world would just end.

Wilson hung his white coat onto the door hook and switched the desk lamp off. He held out a breath at the thought of the hundredth bet he'd just lost to House, but he couldn't restrain the warm feeling shaping his lips into a slight smile: the sick bastard had probably learnt something in the process of stealing money from him, which made Wilson's upcoming humiliation very much lighter.

In a few minutes, he was downstairs: his raincoat unbuttoned, the leathered briefcase slung over his shoulder, his dark blue tie trapped beneath the strap and the immaculate white shirt. The clinic was dark and empty, even a little creepy at that time of the day. The only source of light that filtered its way to the empty space was that of the emergency lamps, as the sound of the rain hitting the windows echoed in the silence. Wilson let his stare wander around, until he saw the only exam room whose closed door couldn't trap a feeble blade of light.

_Of course._

He walked up to the door and knocked noisily.

"Wake up House. I'm not waiting for you another moment."

No one answered. Wilson scowled at the thought of House either indifferent to him or forgetful of him.

"It's pouring outside! You can watch that soap of yours as soon as I drop you off at your place."

_All right. Let's get it over with._

Wilson busted the door open.

"What the hell House, it's been hours. I get it. You win. Let's go home."

As Wilson quit talking, he saw the weirdest arrangement ever. A patient was seated on the couch: Wilson could see his body from behind: the man was seemingly shaking. House, instead, was seated on the floor, right in front of Wilson, his back against the wall and legs stretched out. As soon as he saw Wilson standing in the doorframe, the utmost terror made his blue eyes even wider. But the weird feeling in Wilson's chest that something was utterly wrong was temporarily silenced by the patient turning back in a quick step off the couch. He flashed a glance at Wilson and then turned to House.

"Who's this?"

House hesitated for a split second. When he spoke to the patient, his eyes were not betraying any more fear of anxiety of any sort. He swallowed and then pointed at Wilson.

"He's doctor House. We had a bet that I'd be him." He chuckled. "Of course he's sticking to it. Man of duties..."

Wilson closed the door behind him as he walked in, puzzled.

"House, what is going on here? Stand up for god's sake."

The patient flashed a look at House and then again he turned to Wilson. "_What is going on_? _You_ tell me."

"Ted. Hey." House got the patient to look back at him. "Doctor House is a friend of mine. We were just playing a game. _Now he's getting out_." He stated slowly but firmly, uttering the words as if there was much more to them than their superficial meaning.

Wilson raised his hands "That's enough. I've had a tough morning, my patient died. Let's just drop the sham and go home, shall we."

House's right hand unwittingly reached his thigh. Wilson could see his fingers squeezing the deformed muscle. He walked closer, but House's steady order startled him frozen.

"I said. _Get_. _The hell._ _Out of here_."

–––

12 Hours Earlier

Monday, 8am

Wilson honked the horn for the tenth time in a few minutes. They were going to be late and Foreman wasn't exactly the kind of person you can easily distract with a moving recount of your heroic life-saving rescue of some wounded animal. In fact, neither that nor the evergreen dead grandmother excuse would ever work with him. He could read it in your very eyes: night out with subsequent hangover, deliberate indifference to the alarm clock, slow and pleasant breakfast in the cafeteria. Whichever reason for you stealthily crossing the threshold trying to get in unnoticed, Foreman would always approach you and make a subtle remark that your patients should not be kept waiting for you.

This whole sequence of thoughts had distracted Wilson, so House slamming the door closed as he plopped down on the passenger seat startled him to a ridiculous extent.

"What the hell. Take it easy with that."

"'Morning Wilson."

Wilson shook his head and revved the engine.

"'Morning House."

"Thank you for picking me up."

"It's raining."

"Thank you for picking me up _anyway_."

Wilson stopped at the traffic lights and turned to his friend.

"Thing is, I could have easily let you _walk_ to the hospital. And you deserved it."

"Wipe the grin off." House raised his eye.

"Sorry. This time, I win." Wilson began tapping rhythmically onto the steering wheel.

"What the hell are you talking about?" House snorted.

"I'm talking about being a nice, caring health professional."

"Jesus, Wilson... I was just having fun."

"Me too. And then you _dragged_ me away from the party to ask for a stupid consult. On an _imaginary_ case!" Wilson shook his head. "I can't believe you were doing that while everybody was playing poker. For _charity_."

"My department is being kept alive by donations. I don't need to fund my own job, do I?" House gestured with his hand, raising his brow. "It'd be a contradiction, wouldn't it?"

"All right. But why an imaginary case?"

"I was bored."

"Then you could've come downstairs to play. We could've smoked cigars, hit on elegant, rich women we would probably hate in real life..."

"That was lame. Ten more minutes and you would've been invited to a damn tennis match. You don't do rich and classy, Wilson."

"Thank you."  
>"You're welcome."<p>

"By the way... You're doing my clinic hours today." Wilson said distractedly.

House sat up and turned to him.

"Excuse me?"

"Did I mention I picked you up today even though you ruined my night with a stupid non-existent puzzle which I _believed_ existed until we solved it? Did I mention that afterwards we played poker alone in the empty hall, and we had too much scotch and Chase found us and practically _scooped us up _and next thing I recall I was lying in my bed and it was yesterday morning?" Wilson's stream of words died away. "This was... I don't even know where my suit pants are!" He whispered.

"Come on! We had fun!" House chuckled.

"Maybe. Thing is, you have no idea what dealing with real people is, that is why you create your own mysteries to solve. On Saturday nights. While you should be at a _party_."

"That's wrong. I stay away from people because I know people."

"_Maybe_."

"But?"

"...But I just want to have a little fun today. And you can't drive your bike in this storm. You owe me, House. Twice."

"Fuck off, Wilson." But House's lips were already curved in a smile. "What the hell do you want from me?"

"I am scheduled for eight hours of clinic today. From nine to five."

"No."

"A hundred bucks says you get out of it without any lawsuits or broken bones. Show them that you care."

"I don't!"

"You do. _Perhaps_."

"This is cruel."

"Of course it is. You should have thought twice before you came to me with the fake case."

"You manipulative bitch."

Wilson did not answer. They were now parked in front of the hospital.

"Let's go. New week, new day, rise and shine." He flashed House a smile, then he got off the car.

* * *

><p>an: hello everybody! Sorry I dropped my other stories, but I needed to write this before I could go on with everything else. This story has been on my mind for two days, and I couldn't think of anything else but how to put together the plot... House/Wilson drama and suspense, you won't have a clue how this is going to end until it does, I hope! :P  
>Please, let me know what you think. I'm feeling lonely these days: this fandom is getting smaller and smaller.<p> 


	2. The Switch

**Chapter 1**

The switch

* * *

><p>Monday, 9am<p>

Pediatric ICU

–

"Will she suffer."

"No."

"Doctor Wilson." The woman in scrubs grabbed Wilson's forearm, causing him to turn aside. "Swear to me that my baby won't feel a thing." Her eyes filled with tears, but she swallowed the lump in her throat and turned back to the window, watching the comatose sleep of a five year-old lying in the ICU bed beyond the glass. Wilson felt chills running down his spine.

"Anne, listen to me. Ally's time is running out. I... I am so sorry. I can't make this decision for you."

_I'm a coward, that's what I am. _

Anne bit her lower lip.

"I just wish Ted was here."

"Is he your husband?"

"Yes. I don't know where he is. He left about a month ago, couldn't bear the news of..." Her words died away.

"I'm sorry."

"It's... fine. No it's not." Anne wiped her nose and dried her eyes. "It's _not_ fine." She sighed. "I thought I could count on him... until things went wrong. Our relationship started... falling apart. I was expecting that."

Wilson raised his brow.

_This reminds me of someone._

"Does he know we're gonna make a decision today?" He asked.

"Yes. He called me yesterday, before the transfer. He yelled at me."

"Why would he do that?"

"He said..." Anne paused for a moment. "He said Ally is a fighter."

"She is. For what I understand, she's been to hell and back several times in the past three years."

"I know." She shook her head. "It's just... Why now?"

"She's tired, Anne. It's unfair, but she's been fighting for _three_ _years_. It's much for a child."

"He said..." Anne turned to Wilson. "He said Princeton General was just giving up on her. He said she could have another transplant and she could be fine."

"Anne, at this point there is nothing we can do for Ally. Your husband must be very upset, but I can assure you..."

"I know, doctor Wilson. I know."

"...I can assure you they wouldn't have transferred her here if there was any chance of remission."

"That's what they told me."

"And it's true. We have a smaller PICU here: parents can come and go more freely. Children are sent here when they need to be made... _comfortable_." Wilson flashed a glance at the little girl beyond the glass. "We allow this when there's nothing else we can do for them."

"Yeah..."

"If you hear from your husband, ask him here. This is where he should be."

"I will. Thank you, doctor."

"It's nothing, Anne." Wilson's eyes got prickly. He needed to get away from there. "It's truly nothing. I'll see you later. Think about it, will you?"

"Yeah, of course. Thanks again."

_It's nothing. Goddammit._

* * *

><p>Monday, 9am<p>

PPTH Clinic

Exam Room 1

–

"Good morning..." House checked the patient file. "...Jackie. I'm doctor House, I'll be standing in for doctor Wilson this morning."

House's smile wore off as the door was slammed closed. He couldn't even recall what the patient looked like: her appearance and disappearance had been almost instantaneous.

_Sorry for whatever I must have put you through some time in the past. _

Not that he remembered the woman. Well, he had seen so many clinic patients in the years, that one or two bad experiences were perfectly natural. Or maybe ten. Or twenty. Or _a hundred_.

He cleared his throat and adjusted the white coat. Wilson's white coat. Whose size was obviously too small for him.

_For god's sake. This is like wearing a condom._

House checked his patient list and cracked the door open.

"Matthew Templeton?"

A teenage boy and his mother walked in.

House's lips curved in another smile.

"Please, make yourself at ease. I'll be back in a minute with your blood panel." He went for the door, but then he turned back holding out his hand. "Oh, I'm doctor House by the way. I'll be standing in for..."

He couldn't finish. The mother had grabbed her boy's sleeve and was already outside by the time House had uttered half of his sentence. Again, House raised his brow in surprise. What was that? He couldn't remember the boy, he couldn't remember the mother.

_What the hell have I done?_

Now, this was actually _not_ surprising.

_They know who I am._

House sat down on the stool, massaging his leg. People were afraid to approach him. His reputation was keeping them from being nice, collaborative human beings.

_I didn't even treat them as I usually do. So much for fighting prejudice._

He took a breath. The bet was still on and he needed to submerge Wilson into a suffocating amount of humiliation. It was not even about the money. It was his point of honor to show him that he was as good as him at pretending he cared. Which was what his dear friend did everyday, making him look cynical and cold-hearted.

_Okay, even more cynical and cold-hearted._

Wilson cared. To an extent. He cared enough not to behave like House did, or maybe he was more aware or respectful than him to the social contract.

_All right this is what we're gonna do._

House stood up again.

_As long as we never met before._

"Martin Finch."

_Tall, thin young man in black shirt and jeans. Staggering, looks like he's in pain. Arms crossed on chest. _

"Hi Martin."

"Hi... Uh." The guy sat down on the stool, rubbing his chest.

"Hurts a lot uh?" House nodded. "You just need a little patience. Let me see."

He pulled a chair up to where Martin was and sat down in front of him.

"Lift your shirt, please." House started examining Martin's chest and abdomen.

"That's perfect, thank you, Martin. Could you turn back now?"

"Yeah."

"Uhm. That's good..." House mumbled, lifting the bandages.

_That's boring._

"Hey, doc..."

"Yeah."

"Do you think I will be back on duty any soon?"

"Excuse me?" House lifted his stare from Martin's back.

"It's just, uh... I saw the weather forecast today."

House sat up.

_Whatever this is, keep your mouth shut._

"...And?"

"I'm a storm watcher, doctor." Martin turned to House, his eyes brighter than before. "That's what I do!"

House furrowed his brow.

_Don't tell me you got yourself electrocuted, son._

"Oh, that's fascinating! You must be so very brave..."

_I'm trying, Wilson. I swear I am._

"It's my thing, doctor. I mean, I got a bit frightened when a lightening bolt hit me the first time, but then I thought 'Martin, you son of a bitch, you're not quitting, are you?'..."

"Wait. This wasn't the first time then."

_The odds of this happening twice are... All right House, behave._

"It's my fifth. This is my lucky charm." Martin pulled a small rubber duck out of his pocket. "It's rubber. Rubber is good for lightening. I got hit but I didn't die!" He chuckled.

_Humanity is overrated._

"All right, son." House stood up.

_Don't screw this up._

He shook Martin's hand.

"When natural selection deems that an individual's highest cause is to serve as a warning to others, who are we to disagree?" House quoted.

_Why you're not a Darwin Award yet is one of life's mysteries._

"Your bruises are healing, you can stop the antibiotics as soon as you're finished with this last bottle." House tossed his gloves in the trash can. "You'll be back _on duty_ by the end of the month. Take care."

"You too doc. Oh, and what's your name again?"

_Here we go._

"Doctor Wilson. My name is doctor Wilson."

"Thank you, doctor Wilson."

Martin walked out, leaving House to stand in the empty exam room.

_This is gonna be awesome._

* * *

><p><em>an: not much to say here. Also, today they announced that HOUSE is coming to an end in 11 episodes and I feel like my whole fandom life, from Harry Potter (when there were no movies! I'm that old), to Friends, to House itself all led to this moment. It's a solemn, cathartic moment for us all. It's also pretty sad, but I was expecting this. Now let's see if anything of what I'm writing in Songs for the End of It happens. trololo *hides the pain*_

_Oh, and I'm not -deliberately- falling in love with any other show now or in the future. Not like that. Ever._


	3. SeeThrough

**Chapter 3**

See–through

* * *

><p>Monday<p>

1PM

–

"So. How's it going?" Wilson distractedly stuck his fork into a giant Caesar salad.

"Stop deflecting, for god's sake." House dropped his sandwich and sat back, arms folded. "Why are you eating that, by the way?"

"I am not deflecting. We've been sitting here for ten seconds, for god's sake."

"See? You _are_ deflecting." House pointed his finger at Wilson.

"Jesus, House. Is there any way around this?"

"No."

"Of course."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"So." House picked up his sandwich and ripped it apart in a mouthful. "Why the salad."

"Do I need a reason for whatever I eat at lunch?"

"Not usually. But when it's salad, you do."

"I wanted salad."

"Yeah!" House chuckled. "How long have I known you?"

Wilson bit his lower lip, but he did not seem intentioned to give in.

"How's it going with the clinic?"

"I'm not answering this before _you_ tell me why you're eating healthy." House poured a ridiculous amount of ketchup on his fries. "And _health_ is not a reason."

Wilson dropped the fork and sat back, squinting his eyes at something invisible floating midair over House's left shoulder.

"Uh." He seemed to realize something which made him wide-eyed.

"You realized they gave you the wrong food. Good. Let's give it back." House made as if to grab Wilson's plate.

"No." Wilson pulled the salad away from House's reach. "You are _worried_ for me." He lowered his stare and pointed at House. "That's why you're obsessing over my food."

"Maybe. Or I'm just being obnoxious. One can never really tell the difference."

"Fine." Wilson raised his brow, stare fixed into House's. "I had a stomach ache. Yesterday. Hangover from our stupid private party."

"You _have_ stomach ache. Now."

Wilson didn't answer. Instead, he realized he had turned his eyes from House by the end of the sentence.

"See? You're lying. You were perfectly fine this morning. You scolded me because of the booze and the fake case. But not about causing you stomach ache. Which means..." House smirked.

"...House..." Wilson whispered.

"...Which means you're afraid of something. You always get stomach ache when you're about to crap your pants. Now, what could it be...?" House raised his stare, wondering in his theatrical way, his index finger rubbing his chin.

"House. _House_. It's..."

"Don't..." House closed his eyes, holding up his open palm. "You're not depriving me of this pleasure." He declared, in a firm, yet soothing voice.

Wilson blanched.

"What pleasure?"

"The pleasure of announcing the world that you are a _wimp_." House raised his voice as he stressed his last word, causing everyone eating nearby to turn to the two of them.

"Fine."

"Say it."

"What."

"That you're a wimp."

"I am a wimp." Wilson whispered.

"Thank you. Now, do you want to hear the rest of my theory?"

Wilson sat in silence. He took a breath.

"Okay then." House wiped his mouth and tossed the tissue away. The little boy next table flashed him a freezing glance. House winked at him.

"You have a new patient today." He announced. "It must be someone young, or a mother of five, or... Anyway. It's terminal and you're going to pull the plug, or whatever you do to them, on whoever this is. And _that_, my friend, is ripping the _heart_ out of you."  
>"House..."<p>

"And when I say heart, I say stomach. Bless you." He chuckled.

"How did you..." Wilson shook his head. "Am I really that... transparent?"

"No. you're just a guilt-ridden stinky mess. I figured it out because I know you better than anyone. Except your blow-doll or whatever keeps you entert..."

"I'm not amused. You must've stuck your nose into my files, or..." Wilson hissed.

"Sure you're not. And no, I didn't."

"I'm afraid you're telling the truth." Wilson whispered wearily.

"If it were one of your old patients, you would have already made my life a nightmare with it. If it were someone in his nineties, you wouldn't be so bothered. If it were not terminal, you wouldn't have asked me to stand in for you today, without telling me the real reason. Thanks for the concern. Of course I can live with this. You, instead..."

"Fine. You're right." Wilson raised his hands. "Just hold on till it's over and the bet is off. My bad."

"I knew this already. And I still want your money."

"Sure, fine. _Whatever_."

They sat in silence, then Wilson took a breath and finally spoke.

"It's a little girl. She's five. Her mother is upstairs, making a decision by herself. Husband went awol, she's desperate and she's alone with a dying child who has battled leukemia for three years."  
>House's expression was enigmatic. But if one nuance had changed in his eyes, Wilson could tell the camaraderie had completely faded away.<p>

"You can _not_ torture yourself over this." House articulated slowly. "You _must_ not."

"I... I told the mother she should go for a shot of morphine instead of letting her child suffer further. It'd be a matter of time in any case. Hours."

"This is... humane, I guess."

"I don't know. It probably is. But I left her the benefit of the doubt."

"It's her decision, not yours." House replied calmly. His deep blue stare was piercing that of his best friend.

"I know. She seemed like she was about to consent, but eventually she couldn't. She asked me to wait a bit more."

"She's upset. Bad things happen, Wilson. You need to tell her it's over. For real." House shook his head. "It's fine, you know. Being all caring and stuff. But you... When it comes to this, when you get the _special_ patient..."

"House, please."

"...You act like it's your kin, get all messed up. You're gonna screw up, Wilson. You're gonna feel even worse. And for what?" House raised his brow. "_One _random sick kid? If this bothers you so much, pack up and go to Africa. You'll have plenty of chances to feel like crap over there, if you like being so masochist." He paused. "_Tell the mother it's over_."

"I tried."

"Then try again. This is not a choice. Kid's dead. You'll never cope with your guilt if she dies suffering. The longer she survives, the worse for everybody."

"This is not about me!" Wilson replied, wide-eyed.

"Deep down inside you, it is."

"How can you... Do you even _care_?" Wilson whispered as he shook his head.

House did not reply. Deep lines across his face projected shadows onto his features. His stare was fixed somewhere low. Wilson didn't seem to realize what was going through his friend's head.

"How can this _not_ affect _you_ at all, House?"

He furrowed his brow and went silent, lost in his thoughts.

"You're right." House slammed his fork into the plate and stood up. "It _doesn't_ affect me. _At all_."

He grabbed the cane and limped away.

_Of course it doesn't, does it?_

* * *

><p>an: Oh, I love writing Hilson :) Hope I made them real... Of course House is such a prick and can't for the life of him show his deep understanding and how sorry he is for what Wilson is going through. But he is also trying to free his friend from the situation he got entangled in. Wilson is just as screwed up: what House told him is true (in my opinion, and I believe in canon): he has chosen to be an Oncologist because he likes to be found ready when life's worst comes. But the truth is that he is just like everyone else (and House!), that is, sensitive to what happens to the people around him. So this was some kind of lesson House was trying to teach Wilson, but of course he just can't act like a normal human being and screwed it all up. Next time H/W will meet it'll be in a very different and unforeseeable scenario. Thank you all for reading. :)


	4. Collateral Damage

**Chapter 3**

Collateral Damage

* * *

><p><strong>Pediatric ICU<strong>

**4PM**

–

"I don't think I can live with this, doctor Wilson."

Wilson remained silent. He exhaled tiredly, looking at his young patient, a pale, thin five year-old who had spent more than half of her short life battling a devastating illness. Her mother stood beside him, watching her child's sleep through the glass, contemplating life without her.

"I cannot let you do that. I... it's like... we're ending her life." Her voice broke.

Wilson turned to her, placing his left hand on her shoulder.

"Listen, Anne. It's the illness that's killing her. It's killed her already. She's tired, and we need to help her go with a little ease."

Ally's mother gazed at Wilson in such an intense way, that he felt like she had knocked over his heart and spilled all its contents irremediably.

"Promise me I'm not killing my daughter."

"I _swear_." Wilson whispered. He took her hand. "Continuous deep sedation is nothing like what you think. We're going to have her asleep when the worst comes. There's nothing more to it, I promise."

Anna bit her lower lip and a lone tear rolled down her cheek. Her gaze turned opaque.

"Okay."

–

**PPTH Clinic**

**Exam room One**

**4PM**

–

A tall man with a red baseball cap entered the exam room. House raised his stare from the magazine he was distractedly surfing through and took off his reading glasses. So much for the relaxing day he had planned. Instead of messing with his team and save one random stranger, he had not messed with anyone and certainly not saved anyone's life. He grabbed ahold of his cane from the emergency cart he had hung it upon and stood up, flashing a glance at the patient, who gently closed the door with his hand behind his back, without turning his stare from House.

"Are you doctor Wilson?" He asked.

"Yes I am." House declared. "How can I help you?"

The patient didn't answer immediately. He seemed uncertain somehow, as if he was about to turn back and leave in an eye blink, having realized the pointlessness of the whole exchange between House and him. But then, he did not move. His gaze focused again, and again he fixed it to the man standing by the couch, leaning on a cane.

"I... uh... I've been coughing out blood for over a week. Just a little... After this cold I got from working on my roof."

House squinted his eyes, and it was as if he was trying to pierce the man right through.

"I see."

_No, I don't._

He took a pair of disposable gloves from the drawer, along with a plastic stick and a small tube for collecting specimen.

"Sit down, please. And open up your mouth."

_Or just get out of here, since you don't have anything. _House got closer as the patient sat down on the couch.

"Big _ah_. We'll be done in a jiffy."

_Oh, but now I'm so curious why you're doing this._

The man remained still. House tried a smile.

"I know it's kind of unpleasant, but..."

But he couldn't finish his sentence.

The patient had blanched.

"My daughter is not going to die today." He whispered, reaching for his back pocket.

House instinctively drew back, and found himself standing. That unthought movement sent a bout of pain to his leg. But not even that could divert House's shocked stare from the gun the patient was pointing at him.

–

**Two hours later**

–

"See?" House held his ringing cellphone high with his right arm outstretched, so Ted could see it from where he stood, on the opposite side of the room. "I'm ignoring this. So I can keep psychoanalyzing you until you set me free."

Ted did not reply. He was still holding the gun, his hands shaky. He looked as if he was in some sort of stupor.

"I'm sorry. I can't let... _that_ happen." He whispered.

House's phone got silent again. It must have been the fifth or sixth call from Wilson. The clinic would close down at seven o'clock, in about an hour. He tightened the grip on his hurting leg.

"I'm in pain. I need my meds." He declared, sucking back his own despair in favor of a focused, assertive tone. If he was going to convince Ted of anything, that was the moment. "I'm in pain, Ted. I need to get some pills. We can walk out now..." House fought back a spasm in his thigh. "We can get out of here like nothing happened, and you can be with Ally."

"She's in pain too." Ted desperate gaze wandered around the room. "She's in pain too..."

"I know. I know what it's like." House's voice came out in a whisper.

"No..." Ted whispered. "You cannot possibly..._know_..."

"I have lived with this fifteen years. Everyday. I lost everything because of it."

"You don't know how it is to see someone... your child..." Ted raised the gun. "You know nothing." He sighed.

"Maybe. But this is wrong. You can still go back."

They sat in silence for a while. Then Ted turned his back from House and leaned forward, his forehead pushing against the wall, sighing heavily. Without facing House, he brought both hands up against the wall. He looked as if he was clinging to it to survive that very moment.

"What has she done to deserve this."

House tied his head back, stare fixed into the neon ceiling lamp.

_Here we come._

"You don't wanna go down that road."

Ted turned back to him. He seemed to have successfully recollected himself.

"No, seriously. She's just a child. Why this?"

"People die. Sometimes they die before they are even born and what's their fault in that? There's just no reason."

"There must be something."

"There isn't. Whatever reason you hold on to, it's an excuse to..." Flashing images of his own life kept materializing out of thin air over his visual field. "It's an excuse to avoid the pain. It's not real."

"I believe in God."

"I don't."

"So you just think it's all random."

"I do. And if you believe in God, why are you holding me at gunpoint? That's not gonna get you any rewards."

"My child got sick the moment she turned two years old."

"I think I know by now." House reckoned.

"I worked two jobs to pay for her home care. I got fired from one of them because I'd walk in late every time my kid had a crisis."

House breathed out heavily. "Life sucks."

"My wife broke up with me because I started drinking."

"And you still believe in a higher power?"

"Yes. I now believe there's a higher power that either hates us or just doesn't care."

House didn't reply immediately. That was a new perspective. When he spoke, he tried to be as detached as he could.

"I walk in every morning, knowing that everybody dislikes me. I get looked at, spoken behind my back. And yet I keep doing what I do and people get better because of me. I go where no one would, to pull them back from the brink of death. Lousy life is no reason for shooting guns at innocents."

"Why do you do that then? Why do you save lives?" Ted asked.

"Because _reasons_." House escaped eye-contact with him for a second, then spoke again. "Only actions matter."

"You don't care how they look at you?" Ted raised his brow. "You don't wish for them to look at you differently because you saved someone's life?"

"I don't. I love puzzles. Life is collateral damage. I don't do it for them or me."

"And yet people live because of you."

"Sometimes. Sometimes they die. The important thing is that I find out why. Then nothing matters anymore." House whispered.

"This can't be true. If it's true, it means you don't care if my daughter lives."

House sat in silence. Did he care if one of his patients lived or not, as long as he knew what was killing them? Suddenly, the whole puzzle business seemed forced, out of place.

"Life is better than death. Life is the only thing that matters." He heard himself saying. "Once you're dead, it's just eternal nothingness. That's my only reason."

"But you enjoy the puzzle."

"I do. It's what I'm good at." He admitted. "It's probably the only thing I do that doesn't damage anyone."

"So it's not a sacred call." Ted asked.

"No. It's nothing like that." House admitted. "There's just one thing we can count on, and that's all we have. Life is our only alternative. "

"Then..." Ted's flashing glance pierced House right through, his right arm outstretched in front of House once again. "Then why do you want to kill my daughter, doctor Wilson?"

He pulled the silenced trigger. A click was heard.

* * *

><p>an - Hey mama, look at me updating all my unfinished stories! I loved writing this chapter, it's been half-written for almost a year, and it's all about what I like in Gregory House: the mystery as to why he keeps doing what he does, his take on what life really is and why the puzzle matters or not in the end. Months to write (indeed), seconds to review :)


	5. The Choice

**Chapter 5**

The Choice

* * *

><p>PPTH<p>

Exam Room 1

–

House lay motionless, frozen on the very spot with his back pressed against the wall as if to try and be swallowed by the white paint. He had taken a dive into death without thinking too much. But now that the gun had failed to shoot, he was finding it hard not to lose it: the tremor in his whole body was taking over his self-control and rational power. Of all things dangerous, of all things reckless he had done in his life, disregarding any instincts of self-preservation and the very existence of common sense, House was now held captive by a madman with a shotgun pointed to his chest, and that was happening because he had wanted to prove he could simply _belong_ in the social contract for one single day. And the most incredible fact was that the gunshot that was about to pierce his skin and bones right through was not even meant for him.

It was meant for someone whose life had been shaped around others and the help and comfort he could provide to perfect strangers in their darkest and possibly final days. Wilson was as screwed up as him, but House could now see how his best friend had directed successfully his own issues: in the end what was wrong in needing to be of help, in feeling that you should face doom everyday, so you could be prepared for the very worse? House had always mocked Wilson for choosing Oncology just to satisfy his need to be a good samaritan and to teach himself to fight his own fear to lose people; now, though, he could not see how such a choice could be a bad thing for anyone. This desperate man standing in front of him right now, threatening to kill whom he believed to be his child's attending, was the exception in a plethora of thank-you notes and displays of eternal gratitude for sweetening the tragedy of dying, both for those who were leaving and for those who had to stay. What was the fault in all that? How could be Wilson held guilty of a resolution made for dealing with fear, when it had then turned out as his life's sacred call? That was the moment House realized he was not afraid to die there as somebody else. He could have told the truth, said he wasn't Wilson. He could have easily demonstrated that to Ted by simply showing him his wallet or calling in a nurse with a random excuse. And once again House accepted to live by his own philosophy, that only actions matter and motives do not exist if not to justify what you think you have done wrong. He could see no wrong in what he was doing there, sitting through his own helpless and imminent death. Choosing _that_ death was House's extreme display of love for Wilson. If their friendship had to be reciprocal, it must be done in a way that was true to each party. And House felt he could die there in place of the only person who had never abandoned him and that he could never despise. Indeed they had hurt each other many times, and House could see that many times he himself had made a sacrifice to accommodate his own belief that Wilson somehow deserved to be rewarded for putting up with him.

But that wasn't true anymore: they had come a long way from those years where House could shred to pieces his surrounding world, and Wilson would manipulate him into piecing it back together, driving House into feeling like he owed him. They had walked through life together in a way that had taught them to accept each other to an extent... Amber's accident had marked a turning point where they had learnt the price of co-dependence. And then their attempt at commitment with the women they had long loved, as simultaneous as disastrous, had brought them back together in a way that was less faulty, more complete and that left no unbalances in the give-and-take of their friendship.

What House was, was the sum of his actions. Every hour of his life, every night spent with Wilson because no one else would long for his company or word, every time Wilson was the one who would turn a dark page of House's life to a brighter one, all of that had come to the very moment of that decision: there was no sacrifice in that. There was love and maybe recklessness and fatalism, but there was no feeling like he had to give anything back. What he was about to let happen, would happen because House believed in a world where you _do_, and what you do speaks for what you are.

Then, his cell phone rang again.

House awoke from his daydream to find Ted still standing there with the gun held up high in front of him. He did not dare sliding his hand into his pocket to pick up the phone and silence it.

"Answer the damn phone." Ted whispered.

House hesitated for a moment.

"I said _answer_."

House's breath got faster. What would he say? Dying in place of your soul mate was easier when you did not have to lie to him throughout the whole process.

"Hello."

"Hey. Where have you been? I must have called you ten times."

"I was busy honoring the bet."

"Jesus, House. Do you ever let anything go?" Wilson took a breath. "Why am I even asking."

"It's fine, you owe me two hundred dollars or something like that. Suck your pride up." House's eyes were fixed on Ted's. "Sorry I was an ass to you earlier."

Wilson ignored him. "Ally died an hour ago, the mother is with Family Services. I'm coming down in five minutes. Are you finished?"

House's reply was empty silence.

"House, 'you there?"

"Yeah." He whispered. "Yeah, I'm here."


	6. Domino

**Chapter 6**

Domino

* * *

><p>"Wake up House. I'm not waiting for you another moment." Wilson declared.<p>

House flashed a glance at the door.

"It's pouring outside! You can watch that soap of yours as soon as I drop you off at your place."

Ted did not move. "Who's that?"

House squeezed his vibrating cellphone but remained in silence.

"What the hell House, it's been hours."

"Who is _that_?" Ted asked again.

"No one." House's words were barely audible even in the flat silence of the closed clinic.

"Open up the door."

House did not move.

_Come on, let's get it over with. Shoot me._

"Open the door, doctor Wilson." Ted turned aside, his arm stretched out towards the door, holding the gun up high in front of it. "Open up or I'll shoot."

House slowly stood up, leaning against the emergency cart. As slowly, he limped his way to the door and placed his hand on the lock. He turned to Ted without saying anything. Their eyes met once again.

"Unlock it." Ted whispered

House turned the key as silently as he could. Maybe if Wilson didn't hear him, he would think the door was still locked. In a few, painful and irregular steps, he was back where he had come from. He slid down to the floor and tilted his head back against the wall, eyes fixed onto the ceiling.

_This is ridiculous. He's gonna bust in any second now._

And eventually, the door busted open.

"I get it, House. You win. Let's go home."

As Wilson quit talking, Ted flashed a glance at him and then turned to House.

"Who's this?"

House hesitated for a split second. When he spoke to the patient, his eyes were not betraying any more fear or anxiety of any sort. He swallowed and then pointed at Wilson.

"He's doctor House. We had a bet that I'd be him." He chuckled. "Of course he's sticking to it. Man of duties..."

Wilson closed the door behind him as he walked in, puzzled.

"House, what is going on here? Stand up for god's sake."

The patient flashed a look at House and then again he turned to Wilson. "_What is going on_? _You_ tell me."

"Ted. Hey." House got the patient to look back at him. "Doctor House is a friend of mine. We were just playing a game. _Now he's getting out_." He stated slowly but firmly, uttering the words as if there was much more to them than their superficial meaning, piercing Wilson with his stare.

Wilson raised his hands "That's enough. I've had a tough day, my patient died. Let's just drop the sham and go home, shall we?"

House's right hand unwittingly reached his thigh. Wilson could see his fingers squeezing the deformed muscle. He walked closer, but House's steady order startled him frozen.

"I said. _Get_. _The hell._ _Out of here_."

Then, Wilson saw the gun.

"House..." He whispered.

House made as if he hadn't even heard his name being called. Ted, though, turned from him to Wilson and back from Wilson to House.

"What patient? Who died?"

Wilson stood there in silence. He was starting to get a picture of what was going on there.

"Lots of my patients die." He declared, cautiously.

Ted was now shaking heavily. "Is my daughter dead? Is she dead?"

House moved an uncertain step toward his patient. "Look, there was nothing we could do to save her. You know that."

Wilson blanched. "Is this mister Trevor?" He turned to House. "Why on earth didn't you send him upstairs?"

Ted stepped back, his gun inexorably shifting from House to Wilson every few seconds.

"What did you do to her? You were not the one..."

"I was her attending. And I didn't do _anything_ without _your_ consent. Your wife's been calling your all day. Ally had a respiratory crisis, she died about an hour ago." He raised his hands. "I'm sorry mister Trevor, but she was terminal. She was transferred here because of that."

House's voice broke the few seconds of glacial silence that filled the room in place of air.

"Put it down, Ted. It's over."

The patient flashed a glance at him and seemed to have come to some sort of breakthrough. He walked up to where Wilson was standing, arms spread, just a few steps into the exam room. Panting heavily, he bent over to read Wilson's name tag. Which he could see through the unbuttoned raincoat, clipped to his suit jacket. He turned to House.

"You tried to fool me. You knew."

"I didn't know anything..." House's words came out in a whisper. "It was just a bet. I'm sorry. Put the gun down. Please."

"You've insulted my intelligence."

"Ted, please. It's not his fault." House raised his hands. "It's mine. I'm sorry. I am."

"If you had put her on the recipient list this wouldn't be happening."

Then Wilson spoke.

"Ally had already undergone bone marrow transplant." He tried to soften his tone. "We couldn't have listed her again."

"You didn't want to. You killed my baby."

"Jesus christ, Ted. This is ridiculous." House declared. "Doctor Wilson is a good man. Now, please..."

"Shut up! I said shut the hell up!" Ted's frantic words were the last thing that was heard between the shooting of his gun and the silence that followed.


	7. Epilogue

**Chapter 7**

_Epilogue_

* * *

><p><em>I am floating. This is death and I'm floating away. It's all so silent.<em>

"Wilson?"

_No, it's not._

"House? I'm here. I'm okay." Wilson's eyes wandered in the dark. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." House's throaty voice was coming from somewhere behind the collapsed emergency cart. "The son of a bitch hit the ceiling lamp. You really pissed him off. I saved your cheeky ass."

"Thank you."

Wilson lay stomach-flat on the tiled floor. He blinked his eyes open and rolled on his side.

The moment he landed on his back, he brought both hands to his stomach. It was wet.

_Damn it. _

House tried to sit up. The entire room had gone dark when Ted had fired his first shot: he'd lost his cane somewhere in there, trying to jump forward and push Wilson down onto the floor. The only visible light was a feeble blade coming from the emergency lamps in the clinic hallway. However weak, it was enough to see Ted's body lying on the opposite side of the room, his face turned to the wall, bleeding profusely from the center of what seemed like the exit hole of a bullet in the back of his head.

"He's dead." House whispered. Crawling up to Ted's body, he grabbed his chin and turned him face-front. "Wow. You should come see this."

Holding his right palm in sight, Wilson tried to sit up, but he eventually laid his head back on the floor.

"_House_..."

"House flashed a pocket light in Ted's pupils. "Fixed and dilated. He was brain dead before he even bled out. Now the mother will have a dead child and a dead husband to deal with."

"You should have called me right away." Wilson whispered.

"You idiot. Next time I'm saving your life, you just stay out of my way."

"He was gonna shoot you."

"I was trying to avoid that. Then you ruined it. Whatever." House pulled his cellphone from the back pocket of his now blood-spattered pants. "We need to call the police."

"What you did... You shouldn't have."

"You turned up anyway, fucked up my plan. Now," House finally grabbed a hold of his cane and stood up, bringing the phone to his ear with his free hand. "Would you please come here and help me with..."

The emergency lights eventually kicked in and the room was lit up in a blue-ish glare. House's arm dropped.

"_Wilson_." He kneeled down beside him. "Holy mother of..."

Wilson's eyes were circled in purple, popping out from his blanched, sweaty features. He was panting heavily, grimacing from the pain that was now taking over the shock from the gunshot. One bright tear sprung from the corner of his eye, but both his hands remained glued to his bleeding stomach. House wedged his white coat underneath Wilson's head, eyes fixed on the blood dripping from in-between his friend's fingers.

"Come on." He gently moved Wilson's shaking hands from the wound. "Let me see."

_Jesus Christ._

"We could've done without the chitchat." House declared. Wilson's eyes were fixed somewhere over House's shoulder. Somewhere... _nowhere_.  
><em>Stay with me.<em>

"How bad is it?" Wilson sighed.

House glossed over the question. "When exactly were you planning on telling me about this mess?"

_You're gonna bleed out before anyone comes in here._

"House... I think I'm going into shock." Wilson whispered.

"You're gonna be alright." _No, you're not._

House tried to apply pressure on the wound with one hand, reaching for his pager with his free one.

Wilson grabbed House's forearm.

"Stay with me."

"I'm paging Trauma, they'll come for you. Just hang on. I'm here."

"_House_..."

House saw it coming. It was in his friend's terrified gaze, in his fist clenched around his wrist, in his slurred speech.

"I don't wanna die."

"Shut up you idiot. You're not going to."

_You are. You fucking are._

"You told him you were me."

"I damn well did. How many bets have you lost to me?"

The corners of Wilson's lips turned slightly upwards. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. You still owe me a hundred bucks."

"I know. I know I do. But thank you." Wilson released his grip on House's wrist.

"I said shut up." House tried to look careless enough, but this time he could not lie anymore.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered.

"It's okay. You're a good friend."

_No, I'm not. I made a mess out of a stupid bet._

"You saved my life today."

"I didn't."

"You were going to. You would have. You're a good person."

"That's not..." House swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to look Wilson in the eye though his gaze was getting misty. "...That's not true."

"It is. You're my friend."

Wilson's stare drifted away from House's.

–

**Two months later**

House was standing in the chilly breeze of late winter. In front of him, the gates of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital seemed to be waving a sweet goodnight.

"What do you think you'd have done?"

He turned back. Wilson was standing by the car, hands on his hips. House raised his brow.

"If I'd died." He repeated. "What would you have done?"

"You pulled through."

Wilson nodded.

"Fair enough." He admitted.

"Yeah." House whispered.

"So, are we good to go?"

"I'll set you up in bed, change your stinky drains and be back here in no time." House pointed at the hospital. "I still have a job. Surprisingly enough."

Wilson smiled. House helped him into the car, threw a blanket over him and fastened the seatbelt. Then he got in himself on the driver's side.

"You don't get to be alone for the next month. Doctor's orders." He declared, stare fixed on the empty road ahead of them. Then, he turned to Wilson. "My place or your place?"

Wilson shrugged.

"I have cable." He noted, in a careless tone.

House grinned.

"Great. Can I watch porn?"

They headed home in the chilly night.

* * *

><p><em>Any times I've gone without<br>A home, a meal, a pair of shoes  
>If you had three you'd give me two<br>There aint no other friend like you._  
>–<p>

* * *

><p>The End<p> 


End file.
